Collisions
by Sporie.221
Summary: Sherlock collides with cocaine when he is sixteen years old, though he supposes the collision began when he was five.


To say that drugs _met_ Sherlock would be a complete understatment, because_ meeting_ is to imply that it was ploite and formal; meeting someone is opening the door for them, making small talk, brewing a cup of steaming hot tea, which certainly did not happen to the youngest Holmes. A_ collision _would be more like it; because to _collide _with something is to crash, to spin out of control, to end lying on the ground and try to make sense of what had just happened. So saying that Sherlock collided with drugs makes more sense.

Sherlock remembered very little of his parents. He remembers Mycroft, and the lovely maids who laughed a lot and praised Sherlock's skills of deductions, but he doesn't actually remember seeing his Mother and Father often. He vaguely remembers a small, slim woman with thick black curls that go completely against her tiny figure, and a man twice his size with shiny greying hair, but other than that he barely knew anything about them- what they liked, what they hated, what made them angry or sad or what they found funny. But at four-but-nearly-five-years old Sherlock really quite honestly doesn't care about these things, because he has his brother and his maid and that's enough for him then. One day in early spring, when Sherlock and Mycroft are curled up on the comfy red armchairs in the library reading their own books(Sherlock's is Oliver Twist, Myc's is A series of unfortunate events), when Violet Holmes steps in and tells Sherlock in her meek, gentle voice that Sherlock is starting school in September. Sherlock only really remembers this because it was the first he had ever truly seen his mother's face; she had strange eyes, a mix of light green with grey scattered like sprinkles on a cake, her wild dark hair pulled within an inch of its life into a bun, a small slender body that looked like it could snap in half if you hugged her too tightly. She kisses Sherlock on the cheek, a strange aroma of incense and perfume, and she leaves as quickly as she had appeared.

Sherlock was in school for about a month before he had realised that bis family wasn't normal. It wasn't that Sherlock himself stood out(not counting his lack of social interaction and his confusion of realising that they were reading bight picture books instead of the leather-bound classics he loved). It wasn't anything like that. It was at home time, when the children formed around the teacher as they waited for their parents to pick them up, Sherlock was surprised to discover that no one had a maid bring them home. Everyone else had mums who pushed buggies with sleepy babies or dads who picked them up on their shoulders and talked to them about their day. It was the same in their books- all the heroes of the stories had mummies and daddies with red faces and bright clothes. Sherlock had never known that parents were supposed to talk and shout and play with their children.

After that discovery, Sherlock decided to do everything a small six-year old could do to get his parents to notice tried talking to them at the breakfast table, he offered to help Mummy with the gardening she obsessed over, he followed his father into his stud and asked him if he could stay and help. In Sherlock's mind, his plan was going to work; his mother would sit him on his lap and tell him all of the different flowers she owned; his father would let Sherlock his on his huge leather chair and play games on his computer. But Sherlock's efforts were met with grunts and whispers t his maid to find _that thing something to do. _When Sherlock heard his father whisper that to his maid, he felt like his Father had slapped him. His heart felt empty and cold and his eyes filled with tears, because of the fact that his Father simply didn't _care._ After that, Sherlock felt anger, because he wanted something so simple. He wanted his parents to talk, to laugh at his jokes, to cry, to scream, to feel _something _towards their own child.

After that, Sherlock realised exactly what he was to his family. Not a nuisance, or a good thing. To his parents, Sherlock was like paying the bills or buying clothes-not something annoying, per say, but just something they had to acknowledge with a passing grunt or glance. He didn't care, Sherlock had decided. But it was a bit hard not to care when his world was turned upside down after a few years after his plan had failed. Mycroft had left for uni, and after many arguments and tears from bot the Holmes brothers, Mycroft had left without even saying goodbye to the younger Holmes. Sherlock's maid had died and a new one was hired, one that was cold and indifferent to Sherlock and his deduction 'skill' , which she thought was more of a curse than anything. Sherlock had started secondary school, a loathsome place were he was beaten on the first day. Sherlock no longer had any interest in school, or family- and so, at age sixteen, cocaine crashed into Sherlock. It had started with a small bit, but then progressed on and on. His teachers lectured them on drugs and the effect it had on people, but Sherlock simply didn't give a fuck, because drugs made him forget about his neglectful parents and his awful brother and made everything bright and happy and _alive, _more than anything else in the world ever had.

Of course, it was bound to end badly. Even Sherlock, when he was as high as a kite and laughing with people he would forget about the next day, was aware of that. It had started when he ran out of money. His emotions that he had forgotten he had went into panic overdrive, until he found another way around. He doesn't really notice, some nights- he was aware of the sound of belt buckles, flies opening, grunts and moans, but he vision is blurred and his mind is jumpy from withdrawl. Then, one night, a man wouldn't stop. He pushed Sherlock onto the ground, his hands everywhere and a deep, scratchy voice whispering in his ear, and ohgodhfeelssickandhewntstogohomeandandand

He's eventually awoken, by a man with greying hair an dark eyes, who introduces himself as Lestrade and before he knows it Sherlock has his head buried in this strangers shoulder, sobbing about hands and something being put in his mouth to stop him from screaming, and Greg pats him on his scarily bony back and pulls an orange blanket around him("for shock")and asks him if he has anywhere to go. Sherlock mumbles about a brother living in London, and suddenly after a bumpy ride in a police car he's in Mycroft's flat, sipping tea(two sugars, no milk;how did he remember that?)and for a while that's how they it, sipping tea and half-watching telly, when Sherlock suddenly reaches over and takes his brother's hand. Myroft looks over at him in suprise, expecting to see a wide-eyed six with his head in a book, or a surly teenager pretending to do his homework. But instead he sees Sherlock, a boy who dreamed of being a piräte and once craved affection, who had just escaped a musty drug den with red puffy eyes. Mycroft has a lot to say to Sherlock-too much, really- but he squeezes Sherlock's pale hand instead, hoping that will do for now. It seems to work, because his younger sibling circles Mycroft's knuckles gently.

It wouldn't seem like much to another person, but it's definitely enough for now.


End file.
